


Prodigal Son

by sharkduck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers
Genre: (Thanks Howard), Actually it's probably the politest interrogation and nicest kidnapping you'll ever experience, Brainwashing, Bucky remembers fuckall, Bucky's Metal Arm, By that i mean they were born in Russia but through weird circumstances ended up living in New York, Canon Compliant, Eventual Explicit Content, Feelings(tm), Gen, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Kidnapping and Interrogation, Listen all i want in life is for Bucky to kick my ass so i'll have to live vicariously through this, Mentions of past abuse, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Russian (?) Reader, This is self-indulgent and so is everything else i do, You'll see their backstory eventually maybe, gender neutral reader, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkduck/pseuds/sharkduck
Summary: You've got a degree from UC Berkeley, another from MIT, an IQ well into the 200s and you're still unsure as to how you got yourself into this situation. What you are sure of, though, is that you're stuck in an obnoxiously comfortable room with the most deadly assassin in the world, and he's serving you tea.





	Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might as well happen. It's not like you had anything else to do today, or any other day for that matter.

This might as well happen.

You might as well be stuck in traffic with the deadliest assassin in the world. Adult life is already so goddamned weird.

(You have the sneaking suspicion someone is going to quote that some day. Maybe not the international assassin part, but definitely the part about adult life being strange.)

He might as well be sitting silently in your passenger seat, almost too big for your dinky little Rambler sedan, brooding quietly while his eyes flicker minutely from the road to you. Occasionally he'll order you to turn right or left -- always further and further away from populated roads, you think dispairingly -- and always makes sure you follow his directions. You're a bit afraid of what might happen if you don't do exactly as he says -- which is understandable, considering who he is.

The Winter Soldier. Soldat. The Asset. All sorts of names follow him around; you were mostly convinced he was a myth up until now, at which point you are still unsure if this is actually real or not. Part of you desperately clings to the idea that this is all a very elaborate joke of Howard's, except you haven't actually spoken to Howard in half a decade and you're positive that the Winter Soldier is physically incapable of humor. You catch your lower lip between your teeth as you reflect on the unfortunate series of events that lead up to this point; it's all a confusing tangle of butterfly cause and effect, and, looking back, you really should have been paying more attention to your surroundings.

(Not that it would have done you much good. He's called the Ghost for a reason.)

 

* * *

 

It should have been a normal day, as normal as your days are, considering you might be one of two people in the world capable of recreating Erskine's serum -- no one knows that about you though; at least, no one _should_. You've gotten very good at keeping it a secret, but it seems like others were not quite as tight lipped about your existence as you are, otherwise you wouldn't be in the situation you're in. Your routine was predictable, which does not work in your favor if you're being stalked by an assassin who is more myth than man.

Wake up, take Ms. Rita her mail, go to the store, come home to your hole in the wall apartment, then pour over your notes and do whatever it is that needed to be done that day -- which wasn't much. You didn't need to work -- your rent was paid for, courtesy of the Starks, with a tidy little parcel of cash in the mail every month to cover your expenses, also courtesy of the Starks -- and your apartment was usually as spotless as it could be, since you took every opportunity to clean out of sheer boredom.

Maybe read or throw different household chemicals together to see what happened -- the reactions of which you'd predict accurately, considering you'd done the same experiments millions of times.

Occasionally take a break from the routine to smoke a jazz cigarette when the anxiety began to rear its ugly head.

Sit restlessly waiting for... something. You weren't sure what. Maybe a ring from the little telephone sitting on an end table in the living room collecting dust, Howard's voice inviting you to D.C. or Las Vegas or some other exotic place. A knock on the door from S.H.I.E.LD., or someone similar if S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't exist anymore.

( _They've abandoned you_ , you'd think to yourself sometimes, when everything was too quiet and you were alone too often with only the voices in your head for company. _You're not important enough to keep around, but too important to put a bullet in_.)

It was during one of your daily trips to the little bodega where you buy your groceries that you first noticed something was off. The walk to your car was too quiet. A deserted street in a Spanish neighborhood was an ill omen, but your arms were full of paper bags and your car was four blocks away (you like the walk -- it was good exercise, and now you'll regret trying to stay at least somewhat in shape for the rest of your life, which might be coming to an abrupt end soon) so you wouldn't be able to run effectively even if you wanted to. It's not a problem -- maybe there's something going on in the city, or maybe there's a ball game on TV. You kept walking, desperately ignoring the feeling of being watched as you slowly made your way back to the car.

You officially freaked out when you caught the slightest movement from the corner of your eye, coming from the alley you just passed, and abruptly turned to see _him_.

He was goddamn massive, dressed in all black and long sleeves in the dead of summer, civilian clothes but with leather gloves and a mask that covered most of his face. None of these things are normal, not even in New York.

Dumbfounded, you floundered for a response.

"No," you squeaked -- to his credit, he seemed genuinely confused for a moment, brows furrowing as his head cocked ever so slightly to the side, and you took that moment to turn on your heel and begin speed walking down the street. "No, no no," you continue, "no. Go away."

For the briefest moment, you entertained the idea that your frantic denials of the situation at hand actually worked, much to your astonishment.

Until you heard rapid foot steps behind you and made the informed decision to fuck the groceries and just run. But there was no way you were going to outrun the Winter Soldier, not even if you were particularly fit and had a good day, but you had bags of things that could be thrown; it was a stupid idea, but it was the only idea you had.

Whatever gods exist must have blessed you with fantastic aim in that moment, because as soon as you swung your arsenal of paper bags over your shoulders, you heard the satisfyingly solid thuds of various fruits, pastas, breads, and frozen meats making contact with human body parts. You didn't stop to look at the damage you'd caused, every iota of your being screaming for you to make like sheep and get the flock out of there. Ignoring the quiet swearing behind you, you sprinted full tilt down the street, hoping and praying that at least some Mook would come and save you.

Your luck must have stopped at throwing groceries at assassins, though, because no one so much as peeked through their blinds as you ran for what felt like -- and might very well have been for -- your life; not as you ducked into an alley when you realized he was gaining on you and knocked over three garbage cans and a discarded pastry trolley. Especially not when you weaved through any and every building with a narrow passage between them and capsized anything in your way that wasn't nailed down in an effort to throw off your pursuer.

You aren't very fast, granted, but you'd be damned if you didn't at least give the bastard a run for his money.

You thought you'd lost him when you were twenty feet away from your car and too exhausted from sprinting for longer than you've ever run in your entire life to go any further, doubled over in the middle of the sidewalk and nearly vomiting from heaving so hard. You not only thought you'd lost him, you hoped you'd lost him. You desperately tried to convince yourself that you'd lost him. You were very wrong.

You made the mistake of looking behind you just as he emerged from an alley on the opposite side of the street and closer to the corner, your eyes meeting. You could swear you saw fury on his face for a split second, before he started to stalk down the sidewalk, relentless in his pursuit. With how fast he was, if he started running, you would never get into your vehicle in time to get away.

"Jesus Christ," you wheezed, frantically pulling your keys from your jacket pocket as you half-jogged down the sidewalk, constantly looking behind you only to discover him gradually picking up the pace, causing your heart rate to speed up with him. "Jesus holy-rolling _Christ_!"

You fumbled with your keys, he broke into a jog.

You managed to wrench open your door, he decided to cross the street -- only to be mercifully stopped by a passing car, to his annoyance and your unending relief.

You dropped your car keys.

"Shit! Fucking -- _keys_! Butter fingers--" You spared a glance down the sidewalk and bit back a scream when you saw him not even twenty feet away and gaining fast. You barely managed to scoop up your keys and jam them into the ignition, hands trembling as you flung yourself into your car and shut the door, coaxing the engine to a sputtering start just as he reached your passenger side; without hesitation, you screeched onto the road like a bat out of hell, leaving him literally choking on your tire dust as you turned onto a larger avenue and merged into traffic.

You allowed yourself to breathe, panic squeezing your chest hard enough to hurt as you mechanically forced your limbs to cooperate with each other in order to get you as far away from the Winter Soldier as possible. The edges of your vision blurred as you began to hyperventilate, your face tingling with numbness.

 _I really should switch up my routine_ , you thought, the oddest moment of clarity in an otherwise chaotic five minutes of utter fear, like the eye of a hurricane, _or maybe move to a different state. I hear Pennsylvania is nice this time of year_.

For a few precious moments, you distracted yourself from your ordeal with thoughts of Pennsylvania, before turning your attention back to the matter at hand. It helped, a little bit -- your breathing calmed to a semi-normal pant, and the tunnel vision slowly subsided. Your face was still numb, but it usually was after an attack like this.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself, shakily and with little conviction as you came to an intersection, forced to stop thanks to the red light when all you wanted to do was drive back to your apartment and have another episode, "there's a huge guy in a black mask who chased me all over Harlem. No big deal, I've seen weirder things. Like Venice beach in '65. That was fucked up." In the mind haze that often follows an anxiety attack, you couldn't quite recall what was so awful about Venice Beach in 1965, but you were positive that it was horrendous. Should you talk to Howard? You should talk to Howard.

The thought of somehow making contact with Howard had only just crossed your mind when you heard someone honk and shout angrily behind you. You felt your chest clench again.

 _It's New York, people shout and beep at each other all the time_ , you thought, attempting to convince yourself that it wasn't a big deal. Still, you glanced into your review mirror to see the commotion.

You actually screamed when you saw your assailant sprinting between cars and, when there was no space for him to squeeze between them, running along the roofs of the vehicles parked behind you, his eyes zeroing in on your shitty little Rambler that would never be able to weave in and out of traffic in an effort to get away from this brute. You wanted to cry. There was no where for you to go now; you were essentially trapped in a metal death box, surrounded by other metal death boxes, while a crazed international assassin had you sandwiched with no hope of escape.

You could jump out of your car and scream, or flag down another commuter, but the chances of someone actually helping you were slim. Or you could run, but you doubted you would get far after the marathon you endured not five minutes ago. Fighting him was out of the question.

"No no no, what the _fuck_ ," you whispered. You knew he was right outside your driver's side door, but you refused to look, keeping your eyes glued on the car in front of you.

He calmly hopped down from the cab he'd been surfing on, walked to your passenger door, opened it, and slipped inside, shutting it behind him with an audible and ominously final sounding click. You swallowed. He stared ahead.

"What the fuck."

He didn't respond.

You looked between him and the road, waiting for the street light to turn green. You tapped your fingers against the steering wheel. He did nothing.

The light turned green, and you quietly inched your way forward with the flow of traffic, unsure of what to do now that you were trapped in here with him, but unwilling to stay stationary for fear of angry New Yorkers stuck behind you at a green light. The thought occured to you that it was absolutely bonkers that you would legitimately prefer confronting someone who murdered people for a living over Manhattan traffic, but that thought was quickly overshadowed by your collective consciousness screaming bloody murder and outlining all the things he could -- and probably would -- do to you now that he had you.

You don't know what you expected when he got into your car -- a gun to your face? A team of elite assassins swarming your position? A bullet in your gut?

All he said as you crept closer to the intersection was: "Drive. Don't stop until I tell you to."

His voice was low, but surprisingly clear, even with the mask on. You wanted to slap yourself for thinking that it actually sounded quite nice.

You dutifully followed his instructions, continuing to drive as though you weren't hurtling towards your possible end, though your fingers tightened on the steering wheel until your hands went numb. This was already a terrible day -- usually the Fates had the courtesy of at least letting you have breakfast before giving you hell.

If you survived your morning commute with an assassin, you were going to go home and smoke _so much weed._

 

* * *

 

Back in the present, you exhale a shaky breath as you nervously glance from your rear view mirror to your new pal, then back to the road. You've been driving for so long the sun is currently in its death throes, casting long shadows over the sleepy little towns you pass on your way to... wherever it is you're going. He still hasn't told you yet, but you do know that you're well and truly Upstate, maybe even Out of State, with only the world's most legendary contract killer for company. You should probably be feeling hungry or something, but right now all you feel is anxiety -- not as bad as it was, but still pretty bad.

The only things he's said this entire time is "turn right" or "turn left" or "keep going straight." Never threats of violence. Maybe he's nicer than you initially thought, though it's more likely that he doesn't need to threaten people; the implication that he'll maim and kill you is already there because, well -- he's the Winter Soldier. He's contractually obligated to do those things for a living. The only other sound has been the quiet, constant re-calibrating of something mechanical nearby (you're positive it's from whatever gadgets he has on his person) and the hum of the car around you. You're too frightened of what might happen if you try to turn the radio on.

(The scenarios keep playing in your head, and all of them end with either you injured horribly or dead, and those thoughts did nothing to quell the constant pitter patter of butterflies in your stomach.)

You drum your thumb quietly against the leather on your steering wheel and try to find the courage to say something, the silence having dragged on for far too long. You need something to think about other than how many horrible ways he could end your existence right now.

"Can you _please_ tell me where we're going?" You ask, when you gather the stones to talk.

"No." You jump a little when he speaks, not really expecting a response and so used to the quiet that any noise that deviates from the norm is startling; he's polite enough to pretend not to notice.

"Oh. Okay," you decide to try again, with a different question this time, "Can you--"

"Don't ask questions, just drive." This is frustrating. The combined anxieties of the day and the desperation for anything except silence made the frustration worse. To the point where you could do something stupid, if you're being honest with yourself.

Without thinking, you abruptly slam your foot against the breaks and violently yank your clutch into park right in the middle of the road, turning to face your passenger with your arms crossed over your chest. You note, with some degree of grim satisfaction, that he wasn't wearing his seatbelt, and the momentum of a moving car being suddenly slammed to a stop nearly made him hit the dash -- if it weren't for his, frankly freakish, reflexes, he most certainly would have. With his hands still planted firmly on the dashboard (he's dented it; there's the very noticeable imprint of his palm, right there -- holy shit), he slowly turns his head to face you, and you have the instinctual compulsion to cower, but your stubborn desire for answers and human conversation forces you to stand your ground. He narrows his eyes.

"Don't make this difficult," he sounds genuinely exasperated, but you also see the way his hand twitches toward his side, where his jacket is almost certainly hiding a weapon of some kind, maybe a gun, and the thought of him waving a firearm in your face shatters any semblance of bravery you convinced yourself you had. You gnaw on your lower lip and turn your eyes back to the road, placing your hands on the steering wheel but making no move to go back to driving. You sit there in silence for a bit, impatience rolling off him in waves, until you find the courage to speak again.

"Could you at least tell me if I'm going to die today?" He's silent again, but you keep the car in park; if he was going to kidnap you with your own vehicle, he could at least give you this. He seems to realize that the two of you are at an impasse in the same moment he decides whether or not he's going to take whatever weapon or weapons he's packing and riddle you with holes, and sighs when he leans back in his seat, taking a moment to buckle in this time.

"No." You release a breath you didn't know you were holding, the knowledge that you won't be dying any time within the next six or so hours melting away a bit of the tension in your shoulders. Your curiosity satisfied, you reach down to put the car in drive and continue on your merry way.

"Maybe tomorrow though." You freeze immediately, your hand still hovering halfway between the console and the steering wheel, balking at your passenger. He stares straight ahead, his face -- as far as you can tell -- totally devoid of any expression.

That sounded suspiciously like he was making a joke at your expense. You hope it's him making a joke at your expense. You desperately try to convince yourself that it's him making a joke at your expense.

"I hope to God," your voice is at least an octave higher with fear, "that you're being funny." He says nothing, plunging you both into unending quiet as you've come to expect, and you leave it at that, with no wish to continue the conversation further. You've never regretted asking someone a question more in your entire life.

 

* * *

 

It's almost dark by the time you pass a rusty green sign labeled "WOODHURST, UNINC. NEXT EXIT." He inclines his head towards it. You mentally prepare yourself for him to speak.

"Take the next exit, keep going 'til you get to a warehouse on Fox Street, then turn into the lot between the two brown buildings and park."

"A _warehouse_?" You blurt out, sounding more scandalized than terrified, despite the cold, clammy panic on your skin; warehouses are where people like you go to die. You see him nod out of the corner of your eye and tighten your hands on the steering wheel.

"It's either you take us there, or I drive us myself. Whichever you prefer." Fuck.

You dutifully follow his instructions, because you get the feeling that his idea of driving you to the warehouse involves you bound, gagged, and possibly in the trunk; you figure that being free to move and speak and drive is infinitely preferable than the alternative.

Woodhurst is one of those towns that people would describe as "sleepy," although _comatose_ or _stagnant_ would be far more appropriate; you are completely sure that the roads haven't been maintained since the early 40s. You also note, with astonishment, that it reminds you of a town you would rather have not been reminded of, which is strange, because you thought you'd moved on from those memories up until now. Thankfully you don't have time to dwell on it; his voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife.

"Turn here." You obediently coax your car to turn right, onto a small side street between two buildings that opens into a larger lot, surrounded by a concrete wall on all the sides that would normally be left open, like a dirty white branch sprouting from the ugly rectangular building with too many windows that you're told to park in front of. It feels like your heart stops for a bit as you kill the engine -- it's the perfect place to hide a car for a few days. Maybe with a body in it.

For a moment, the both of you sit in silence, neither of you moving.

"So," you manage to shake out, your fingers tightening on the steering wheel until your knuckles go white, "are you going to knock me out and drag me in there?"

"No." You glance at him and seize up when you realize he has a piece of black cloth in his hand. "Get out of the car." You comply, because what else can you do?

As soon as you're in the parking lot, he's directly behind you, tying the cloth around your eyes tight enough to pinch, before he grabs your arm with enough force to leave bruises and begins to yank you towards (what you think is) the general direction of the warehouse. You trip a little, what with being tugged along the way you are, with no knowledge of the terrain around you, but his grip on your arm keeps you steady. You can feel how rough his gloves are against the bare skin of your arm.

"I thought you said you weren't going to drag me in! Pretty sure this counts as dragging, jackass!" You're not entirely sure what calling him a jackass would accomplish, but you hope it's the immediate cessation of all dragging activities. Unfortunately, no such luck.

"This isn't dragging," he insisted, "I'm guiding you. You can't see the doors with a blindfold on."

"Yeah, well, you're a shitty guide dog!" Something about that makes him stop and let go of your arm, and you briefly wonder if you've offended him, or if he's decided to heed your complaints after all.

He kicks your legs out from under you, scooping you onto his shoulder like a sack of bad potatoes while you strangle out a shocked scream; he wraps his arm around your legs, keeping them flush against his chest, and your face heats up as soon as you realize your hands have landed squarely on his ass (does he have two knives in his pockets? _Holy shit_ ). Embarrassed, you quickly yank your hands away and move them somewhere less scandalous, just above the waistband of his pants. He goes rigid almost immediately.

"Touch the gun in my waistband, I snap your legs," his voice is dangerously low, and you swallow the little knot of anxiety that's decided to form in your throat, "touch the knives in my pockets, I snap your ankles. I'm doing you a courtesy--" this is courtesy? "--don't repay it by doing something stupid." You swallow again and nod, though he can't see you, and ball your fists into his jacket, making sure to be as still as you can. He wraps his other arm around your waist, keeping you steady as he makes his way into the building, his stride unnaturally smooth.

There's something odd about the arm wrapped around your waist -- it's almost too hard and too cold under his gloves and jacket; like it's made of metal. Maybe it's just the foreign feeling of someone having their arm around you. You try and convince yourself that there's nothing weird about it.

The inside of the warehouse smells like a lab -- hard cleaning chemicals, plastic; like sterility -- and not at all what you thought the inside would smell like. Somewhere deeper inside was a whir of machinery. You imagine what the inside of Howard's lab looked like, from what you could remember of it -- bright lightbulbs casting a constant, pleasant yellow glow on all his instruments and notes. It probably looks so different now; the thought makes you more upset than you thought it would.

"Struggler," the Soldier mumbles; you can feel his chest rumble against your knees as he speaks. You imagine there's a man at a desk, scribbling down notes; maybe he's in a uniform, but it's more probable that he'd be in a lab coat, or just a fashionable set of clothes that could pass for business casual. The imagined man raises an eyebrow as the two of you walk in, you slung over the Winter Soldier's shoulder, with his right arm keeping your legs secure at his chest and his left wrapped around your waist. _Struggler_ , the Soldier says, when the imaginary desk man silently asks for an explanation as to why he's carrying you into the building in such a way.

You continue on, further into the bowels of the warehouse, leaving the imaginary receptionist behind. It feels like hours before you're put down again. You wobble a little on your feet, having gotten used to not using them, and you were beginning to get dizzy from being upsidedown for so long that being upright makes your head swim behind the black emptiness of the blindfold; the Soldier keeps his hand on your arm and coaxes you forward. The inside of this room smells different -- no less sterile, but different. Like freshly laundered linens and lemon-scented floor polish. More like a hotel suite than a lab, though the underlying smell of hard chemicals is ever-present. You feel someone tug on the cloth around your eyes, undoing the knot, and blink when you're assaulted by light.

It looks like an honest-to-God Hilton suite, and you blink a few more times after your eyes have adjusted to sight again, as if to clear away some illusion. You expected a cell, or at least an interview room like you see in police departments -- but the only evidence that this is your prison now is a long plastic table in the exact center of the room, with two surprisingly plush looking chairs facing each other, and the bars on the windows. Other than that, the room is obnoxiously pleasant -- the walls are a happy, unobtrusive cream color; the floor is hardwood, but mopped and polished to a smooth, glossy sheen. There's a twin bed in the corner, with what looks like freshly laundered linen, and even a dresser behind the chair opposite the door, though you doubt they'd let you go back to your apartment for your clothes. The rest of the room is dominated by two walls that jut out from the otherwise uniform, rectangular suite to meet in a corner, forming what might be a bathroom, but also might be the hallway or another room intruding on the space. Nothing juts out from the ceiling -- above you is nothing but smooth linoleum tile; nothing for you to hang from. It's disgustingly nice, for a cell.

You turn to face the Soldier, mouth open in the beginnings of a _what the hell is this?_ question, but stop dead when you see him hanging his jacket. It's not the strangely utilitarian coat rack that gets you, nor the reinforced steel door, nor the vest that definitely looks at least semi-bulletproof at a second glance carefully slung over a form-fitting shirt.

His left arm is made entirely out of metal. It explains the odd feeling of his arm when it was around your waist, but your brain is simply unable to process how that's even _possible_. No prosthetic you've ever seen looks like _that_.

You have the ridiculous thought that it looks a bit like a snake, with all the plates, and you're fascinated by the way it moves; a very convincing facsimile of a real arm, the plates shuttering and recalibrating as he moves, like flesh and blood muscles would. You wonder if there's -- you think there are something akin to bones in it? There would have to be. You want to take it apart and study every inch of it, especially the hands. Catalogue every square centimeter and prod at it until you know its inner machinations like the back of your palm. He catches you staring and motions for you to sit down. He's polite enough not to mention the blush on your face when you do so.

He doesn't sit across from you, like you thought he would -- instead, he stands by the door, stock still, with his hands passively folded behind him.

Oh. He's here to make sure you don't escape, while your real interrogator gets here; that gives you time.

Good. Your eyes keep flickering back to his left arm, your brain racing with possibilities as to how he gets it to work, how it's attached -- his vest hides exactly how much of him is artificial, but you can make an educated guess from what you can see. Even his shoulder looks to be made of steel -- at least, you think it's steel. There's a giddy part of you that wonders if it's vibranium. But how is it attached? Some kind of anchor? You want to see what's under the vest. You _need_ to see what's under the vest.

Your fingertips itch, and you drum them against the tabletop to busy them and catch your lip between your teeth. You wish you had paper with you.

If he notices you staring, he makes no move to acknowledge it, but you swear you see him shift a little, as if he's uncomfortable. His face remains placid.

"How does it work?" you blurt out, and he seems genuinely taken aback, blinking owlishly at you in the chair as if you've sprouted a second head. Then, glances to his shoulder; the plates recalibrate with a mechanical whir and you resist the urge to get up and take a closer look.

"I don't know."

"How can you not know how your own prosthesis works?"

"It's not my job to know." His eyes narrow, and you shrink back in your chair a little bit, folding your hands in your lap and twiddling your thumbs, trying your hardest to look at the room around you instead of at him. It doesn't work -- you keep coming back to that arm.

"Can I," you gnaw on your lower lip, "can I see it?"

"You already have." Semantics.

"I meant, can I actually look at it? Up close?"

"No." Fuck.

Your nostrils flare and you purse your lips, pressing your thumbs together in your lap, your curiosity far from satisfied.

"What's it made of?" You try and keep your voice sweet, in the hopes that it'll appeal to him.

"You're not at liberty to know that." There's no way it's steel then -- why keep it classified if it is? Unless the Soviets have some kind of secret formula for producing steel they don't want the world to know about, which is unlikely.

"So it's not steel?" His expression is genuinely shocked, and it's the most emotion you've seen on his face since you met him this morning -- his eyes wide, his eyebrows raised, his mouth slightly agape as he slowly comes to terms with his own slip up. Then he looks at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve, which quickly (you count the span of two seconds) turns to barely contained anger that simmers under his face, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. It appears you've pissed him off, which you think -- and half of you isn't sure why you think this, but you're convinced it was a momentary lapse into insanity caused by your excitement at seeing a real live robot arm -- is positively _delightful_.

He opens his mouth to speak, teeth bared a bit like an angry animal, but before another word escapes into the room, the reinforced steel door the Soldat was so diligently guarding swings open with a hiss that only hydraulic machines are capable of producing. You hear your name spoken in a soft, sure voice and you physically wince when you realize it's your _real_ name -- not the name you've been using for the past five years, or the Americanized version you went by when you worked for Howard -- your real, Russian-born name that you wish you could forget.

The man who stands in the threshold of the door is white from head to toe -- platinum hair slicked close to his head, paper-white skin devoid of blemishes or wrinkles, crystal clear gray eyes that glint behind his glasses -- the only thing that isn't white about him is his tie, peeking out from under the collar of his lab coat, and the clipboard in his hand. He's immaculate, not a stitch out of place. Even his face is unnaturally perfect: smooth as marble, his eyes the perfect distance apart, his nose perfectly sharp and not too angular nor too round, his jaw a perfect square. Like a statue, or a painting of what a human being _should_ look like. He looks alien and unreal.

"Hello," he greets you in Russian, and the way he speaks is entirely too formal; it makes you flinch, and his lips twitch up into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "My name is Dr. Smith; you may call me Carl," that name is obviously fake,  "I will be the one interviewing you this evening." He says _interviewing_ , but the true meaning of the word is plain as day. This man is here to interrogate you, and you're almost positive you know exactly what they want.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for playing folks!! comments and kudos fuel my spiteful will to create more weird fanfics


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